Hidden In Plain Sight
by uktechgirl
Summary: Post-'Fractures'. Crichton discovers he's already been betrayed - by an unexpected source.


TITLE: Hidden in Plain Sight  
  
SUMMARY: Post-'Fractures'. Crichton discovers he's already been betrayed - by an unexpected source.  
  
GENRE: Paranoid angsty melodramatic conspiracy theory. Similar in tone to 'The Uglier Truth' (though the stories aren't related); I think my crystal ball has a crack in it.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Farscape belongs to Henson, Sci-Fi et al. Not me. Grr.  
  
ARCHIVING: Have at it - but email me so I know where it's at.  
  
NOTES: Close-up magic relies on sleight of hand and misdirection. I think 'Fractures' does too. In fact, I think 'Fractures' is possibly the most amazing trick Farscape has ever pulled off - which makes Rockne S. O'Bannon and Tony Tilse pretty darn clever. Hats off to them - and apologies to all of you who will hate this fic. No beta; all my own fault. TY to the usual suspects, for keeping me sane. /words/ denotes italics.  
  
FEEDBACK: Whether nice or nasty, it's welcome. To uktechgirl@scape-goat.com  
  
  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
'Gone? What do you mean, gone?'  
  
Crichton leaned against the outer rim of Pilot's console, and endured the familiar withering glare of yellow, stalked eyes.  
  
'She's taken a pod to the trade planet,' Pilot replied, deftly flicking his clumsy hand away from the temperature controls. 'I've just received a comms transmission confirming her arrival, and requesting that you join her. She says...' Pilot cleared his throat, either uncomfortable with conveying personal messages between Moya's residents, or simply irritated by the squabbles which necessitated them. 'She says she needs to speak with you privately, on a matter of some urgency.'  
  
'We live on the same damn ship, Pilot, couldn't she just holler?'  
  
'Perhaps you should take that up with her. She anticipates being planetside for approximately three more arns. If you wish to make your goodbyes in person.'  
  
Crichton's mouth curled up into a mock smile of disbelief that didn't reach his eyes. He clutched the console again and moved his head closer to Pilot's, as if that would make the words more fathomable.  
  
'She's leaving.'  
  
A statement, not a question, but Pilot nodded all the same. She was leaving. It was happening again, the Jerry Springer family slowly collapsing; fracturing. Across two ships had been bearable; bearable, because temporary, in some inevitable way. But not now. Now every decision carried a mark of permanence, of choices made: you were either in or out. And now they were drawing up battle plans, and Crais was on board Moya as his ally, and she was leaving. If fate had a hand in his future, he reckoned her sense of humour was growing increasingly dry.  
  
Acknowledging Pilot's own sombre expression with a minute tilt of his head, Crichton turned and walked slowly down the den platform.  
  
'Ready a pod, Pilot,' he called softly over his shoulder. 'And tell Chiana I'll be down there in a quarter arn.'  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
There were the inevitable protests from the comms before he left.  
  
D'Argo was gunning the engine of the Luxan ship before Crichton had even got his boots on, with a plan that was predictably straightforward. 'We go down there, we find her, we bring her back. Bound and unconscious, if necessary.'  
  
'Spare me the fantasy list, D-man,' said Crichton, aiming for gentle. 'She said me, alone, and right now that really doesn't include you.'  
  
A lengthy pause nagged at his mind as he searched out Wynona. His and D'Argo's current truce was new and uneasy; Chiana was not the best subject to challenge it.  
  
'Maybe she's testing us,' D'Argo said eventually, sounding hopeful. 'You know how she is, she gets insecure, thinks people aren't listening to her. Maybe she wants us to go down there and bring her back.'  
  
Jool's voice cut over his like a particularly blunt knife. 'If she's planning a short trip, the little tralk doesn't travel light. I'm in her quarters, and they're empty. She's taken everything she owns.'  
  
'And probably a few things she doesn't,' grumbled Rygel. 'If anyone wants me, I'll be in my quarters, taking an inventory.'  
  
Crichton located the weapon, and did his best to ignore the shadowy form of Stark's mask lying on the sheet beside it as Crais's voice crackled from the comms.  
  
'Crichton,' he said, in the irritable, embarrassed tone he always used when offering guidance to the human. 'Have you considered the possibility that this might be a trap?'  
  
'It's Chi, Crais,' Crichton answered, slipping the long PK coat over his shoulders and striding out of his quarters towards the transport hangar. 'Pilot's been tracking her pod and maintaining communications. It's Chi, I'd trust her with my life, and I am not missing out on a chance to talk her back up here just because a few million Peacekeepers want to kick my ass. If I'm wrong, sue my corpse.'  
  
'Crais is right. I don't think you should go alone.'  
  
Crichton stopped dead in the corridor.  
  
Aeryn.  
  
Speaking to him.  
  
Expressing concern.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
'If you insist on going down there,' Crais continued, 'then the Luxan ship at least has weaponry.'  
  
'And no-one is flying this ship but me,' D'Argo declared proudly, as if daring anyone else to dispute it.  
  
Crichton sighed, walking on and wishing that their communications might, once in a while, be conducted on slightly more private terms. 'D'Argo,' he said, as softly as his voice allowed without dropping to a whisper, 'If Chi wants to jump ship, you telling her she can't is going to give her one hell of a push.'  
  
'Then we'll take the module, and I'll come with you.'  
  
Again, he stopped. Her voice was no warmer; she could simply be stating cold practicalities. But the module...that was not a logical alternative. The module, where there was only barely space for two, where her soft hair had tickled his nose, where her intoxicating scent had tugged their lips together inexorably. The module, where he had sat as she approached, in her fingers a vial of honey-sweet liquid, in her eyes an accusing, fearful look, daring him to taste, testing him not with words but with simple biology.  
  
The module, where he had killed her.  
  
Too soon. Don't rush her, the other Crichton had said. She takes time. In the module she would be pressed against his back, her breath warm on his neck. In confined spaces he couldn't help but talk; only today in the conduits, repairing Moya, she had reminded him how capable of silence she was.  
  
/Fluffy pink slippers. Donald Duck. Mickey Mouse. Huey, Louie, and Dewey./  
  
Way too soon, if that was the best he could muster. If this was offered as further punishment, for the unholy crime of being alive and dead at the same time, then he was happy to pass. If she was offering him another chance, then she could offer it again. Right now, he would focus on Chiana, and her tantrum, her hissy fit, her brat routine. Familiar. Manageable. A story with a beginning and an end and no gaping black hole at its centre. Easy little Chi.  
  
'Nothing doing,' he said, setting his feet in motion again. 'Been tinkering with the hull, trying to figure out why Linfer's craft didn't protect her from the wormhole when mine did. The Farscape One is currently the Farscape Sixteen hunks of junk all over the maintenance bay.'  
  
It was mostly true. He could've pieced her back together in five microts, but Aeryn didn't know that.  
  
'Moya will remain in communications range,' Pilot added neutrally. 'If you run into difficulties, Commander...'  
  
'You'll send in the cavalry,' Crichton finished for him, rounding the corner and watching the new pod's stairs descend for him. 'Thank you, Pilot. I'll see you in a couple of arns.'  
  
He stepped up, settled into the golden curve of the pod's seating, and waved a casual hand over the launch controls, easing the transport from Moya's hull and guiding it to the green planet beneath.  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
A garden city on a planet more Endor than Dagobah, despite the slick muddy ground where he'd landed. Simple wooden structures, packed dirt roads. Fresh, cool air riffling through the endless trees, wafting over only the mildest hint of rotting leaves and decaying animal flesh. He'd hauled her back from worse places.  
  
The Freslin chair. That bar on...where the hell was it?...frell, he'd stopped counting. Every bar she'd swayed into with a glint in her eye. Every marketplace, where they put the glittery stuff out on show. The graveyard planet, with its ash for earth and the smell of death on everything.  
  
Not that he brought her back from there. He'd tried. He'd pleaded and reasoned, and then stuck a needle in her arm and thrown her over his shoulder. And Aeryn had stopped him, of all people; Aeryn, with a compassion she claimed she'd learned from him. Maybe, sometime when she accepted he might be entitled, he could persuade her to give it him back.  
  
He felt a prickle of guilt creep up his spine. The escape to the graveyard, the drinking, the mushrooms, the leap of faith; Chiana thought her brother, Nerri, was dead. So she'd come to talk, to do that thing he was supposed to do best, and he'd brushed her aside to repair some frelling circuit. He hadn't even realised she was upset until they found her gone; hadn't heard the catch in her voice. And with everything that had happened since the pod came back from Talyn, she could've been spraying blood from her wrists and he might have missed it.  
  
Watching an image of yourself calmly preparing for death made you insular that way.  
  
A brief flare of anger covered the guilt. She had no right to do this to him now, no right to make demands of him. If she understood loss so damn well, she could understand this. He had sisters, the blood kind, and she was not going stop him finding a way to keep them safe.  
  
Going down to some unknown planet, knowing he'd come chasing after her leaving a tracer from the transport pod like a red flag to any passing patrol, any hopeful bounty hunter. It was irresponsible. Inconsiderate.  
  
Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous: Chiana didn't do responsibility. She did love, and passion, and pain, all the big stuff, but without any sense of consequence. He felt a twist of envy in his gut, at the thought of being able to simply walk away, lose himself in some forgotten backwater, cut Harvey off from any hope. But giving up didn't seem to be in his mental vocabulary. It had long been accepted by the rest, but now even he had literal proof. He would die trying; Chiana would cling on to every spark of life until the bitter end. At least Nebari Prime had given her one gift worth having.  
  
Ducking through the dense trees, he found a muddy road and stuck to it, aiming for the noisiest, busiest shack he could find. If these primitive people possessed anything approaching a bar, that's where he'd find her.  
  
It didn't take long.  
  
The hut was dark, smelly, and peppered with slender, yellow-skinned beings who might have been part-Sebacean in origin. They stared as he entered, noting with distaste the heavy leather coat, and the pulse pistol purposefully visible at his thigh, then went back to their drinks.  
  
He stepped up to the bar, taking a stool alongside the shock of white hair, the slender grey-clad elbow. The pale fingers were playing with an empty glass, rolling it between the palms anxiously, tapping at the opaque smoky surface with dark fingernails. The glass was set down, then picked up again, fingertips pinching the rim, sliding wetly around in it in the hope of a chime. One hand sat flat, resting on the counter of the bar, and trembling slightly.  
  
'Buy you a beer?' said Crichton, lightly, in her ear.  
  
The glass toppled from her hand, and smashed irrevocably on the floor.  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
Crichton watched Chiana carefully. She was nervy, skittish like she had been when they'd first met, all head-tilts and half-smiles and wariness. She kept glancing towards the door, then looking away and giggling tautly, tipping the new glass to her mouth again and setting it down empty. Each time the bartender would replace it with a gracious smile, and extract another token from the pile of currency at Chiana's elbow. At the rate she was drinking, he thought, whatever goodbyes she came out with were unlikely to be remembered in the morning.  
  
Crichton relented and bought himself a drink, knocking back the greenish liquid with a grimace. Half mouthwash, half chilli oil, a typical Uncharteds cocktail. Chiana laughed at his sputtering, looking at him for the first time.  
  
It was an uncomfortable moment. Anger, concern, frustration, and anxiety all tussled for supremacy, muted by knowledge of the utter futility of arguing with her when her mind was set. He gazed at her without the faintest idea what he wanted to say. Chiana's throaty chuckle faded to nothing. Deep black eyes, ringed with pink, stared back, no less uncertain.  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
He broke it.  
  
'Pilot says you're leaving.'  
  
Chiana nodded. Focused on her hands. Rolled the glass between her fingers; watched the pale liquid swill round the base.  
  
'He said you wanted to say goodbye,' Crichton added.  
  
Chiana nodded again, still not looking.  
  
Crichton chewed his lip, biting back irritation.  
  
'You know, to say goodbye you actually have to open your mouth.'  
  
It came out harsh. Chiana breathed in sharply.  
  
'You're angry with me,' she said. Words a little slurred; hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Drunk and flirty, covering child-like and vulnerable.  
  
Three thousand instances of two kid sisters with butter-wouldn't-melt expressions flipped into Crichton's mind. Affection, irritation, in equal measure. He knew how to play this game too.  
  
'You drag me down here, to some dunghole we know nothing about, when I'm supposed to be coming up with a strategy that's going to out-think a guy who has access to every single thought I've ever had, who can predict every move I make. My best friend is just about over trying to kill me, Pilot wants to hitch Moya up to the nearest passing Relgarian, and my girlfriend wishes I were dead so that I could be more like the guy she really loves. My life just isn't crappy enough, Chi, how could I be mad at you for making it tougher?'  
  
When in doubt, deflect. And always, always, assume the moral high ground.  
  
Chiana was supposed to be chastened, or indignant. Better yet, laughing, puncturing his seriousness.  
  
'You know, sometimes, it's not just about you,' she said quietly.  
  
Crichton stared at her, his mouth falling open. 'For me, it is,' he said, equally quietly. 'I only get one shot. No matter what the rest of you see, no matter what Aeryn thinks, there's only one me. I screw up, I'm gone, kaput, kaboom. I am an ex-John Crichton, and all of this will have been for nothing.'  
  
Again, the hollow little laugh as she knocked back the drink.  
  
'Maybe you can find a friendly Delvian to drag you back out of the after- life,' she slurred.  
  
Holy...  
  
Count to five. Count to ten. Breathe deeply; straighten spine.  
  
'I'm gonna assume,' he said eventually, 'that that would be the drink talking.'  
  
This time she looked him right in the eye, although an idle hand still played with the glass. 'What? You don't want to hear Zhaan's dead for Aeryn?'  
  
He stared at her, frowning. Was this what she thought he wanted? Aeryn comes back and ignores him, so now he's supposed to hate her, blame her, wish she was gone?  
  
But the Nebari wasn't finished.  
  
'It's not just her, you know,' she went on, dropping her gaze and staring into the glass with glazed eyes. 'I mean, she had Pilot's DNA before, anyway. And Stark, he does his dispersal thing. No corporeal form: how fecked is that? Crais, linked up to Talyn. You, with that sphere. Future Crichton. Past Crichton.'  
  
He swallowed, guilt homing in again. It was Chiana who had protected the Neanderthal Crichton; Chiana who had seen his nobility, when all he could see was an ignorant primitive.  
  
'And now,' she said, her breathy voice sounding oddly strangled. 'Kaarvok, the twinning. You, me, D'Argo.'  
  
The dark eyes strayed up to his, looking almost hopeful.  
  
'I mean, like any of us really know who we are. For certain.'  
  
She trailed off, white fingers pink at the joints from gripping the glass, black tears tracing lines down the pale skin of her face.  
  
Crichton stared, until the hesitant black eyes dropped away. He stuck out his chin, catching some of her customary defiance and adding a bitterness that was all his own. '/You/ want to talk to /me/ about an identity crisis?' He laughed sourly. 'You had a double for five microts, D'Argo even less. Believe me, I don't think either of them had time to blacken your copy-book.'  
  
'I buried him,' Chiana said, her voice almost a whisper. 'I gave him a warrior's death.'  
  
The image surfaced in his mind: D'Argo's body, entwined in a filthy cloth, slowly igniting and toppling down into the far recesses of the dying Leviathan. Chiana, poised over the corpse, scattering some herbs and mouthing an incantation that he doubted even D'Argo knew she had bothered to learn. Her desolation; his own panic.  
  
He ran a finger absently around the rim of his glass, his thoughts tilting back to Moya, to where he should be. He let the irritation trickle back.  
  
'D'Argo's not dead, Chi,' he said, shaking his head. 'He's back up there on Moya, getting on with his life, instead of bailing and freaking out and...'  
  
'And dropping enough cargo on his friend to almost kill him?' she finished for him, eyes still on her glass.  
  
Crichton flinched, the memory of D'Argo's cold anger more painful than the pile of boxes that had knocked him into a near-fatal coma. Not just hyper- rage, though no less impersonal. D'Argo had wanted to hit something, to punish something; Crichton had simply been nearest. Fallout. Post-trauma. The symptom, not the cause.  
  
Chiana, drunk. After she thought Nerri was dead; after she thought he was dead; after burning D'Argo.  
  
He gazed at her bowed head, and tried to remember the last time they had talked. The answer wasn't forthcoming.  
  
'I'm sorry,' he said, closing his eyes painfully. 'And you're right. It's not just about me. Never was.'  
  
When he opened his eyes again, the look on the Nebari's face was unexpected; not relief, or pleasure, or empathy, but a kind of apologetic trepidation. She swallowed nervously.  
  
'It's not just about me, either.'  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
Crichton set another empty glass down on the bar, and let his fingers stumble towards the replacement. Beside him, Chiana again snatched a glance over her shoulder at the door.  
  
'Expecting someone?' he said dryly, as her eyes darted guiltily back to the bar.  
  
Her lips twitched into a nervous smile. 'Only an over-protective Luxan.'  
  
He nodded, as he tilted the glass to his lips.  
  
She was lying.  
  
He wasn't sure how he knew; something in her suddenly slurred voice, as if she was granting him the upper hand, making him think he still held the reins. He'd seen her pull the same trick on unwanted lechers in bars; this was the point where she stood up, lifted the guy's wallet, and strode away in unexpected sobriety. He had an uneasy feeling that he wasn't about to be even that lucky.  
  
'Do you trust me?' she said.  
  
Bad time for that question. Every warning sense he had was tingling; he realised dimly that he'd drunk far more than he'd intended.  
  
'Any reason I shouldn't?' he said slowly, pointedly casting his eyes over to the doorway and wishing it was a little more in focus.  
  
'I know why Stark left Talyn,' she said softly.  
  
Crichton blinked. That one had sailed past his backstop.  
  
'You brought me down here to talk about...Stark?' he stuttered.  
  
Chiana stuck out her lip, ignoring his dismissive voice.  
  
Crichton sighed, rubbing his eyes with weary fingers. 'I know why he left, Chi. He heard some voice from Zhaan and he wanted to go follow her signal. No big mystery.'  
  
'I know what she was going to tell him.'  
  
Crichton tested his jaw muscles. 'What, you two got telepathic voicemail? She pages you once a week with a horoscope and skincare tips for the recently deceased?'  
  
God, he was bitter. Caustic. You could clean toilets with the acid he could produce right now. And he was trying to be nice, trying to give her leeway, and she just looked scared. Of him. With justice.  
  
'You know I've been...seeing things. Knowing things. That I shouldn't know.'  
  
Easy little Chi, except it was never easy. He bit back the harsh retort; knew from her face she'd seen the shadow of it cross his eyes anyway.  
  
'It's OK,' she said dully, tapping the glass again with black nails. 'I know what it sounds like. If it wasn't in my head, I'd think it was a bunch of dren too. If you're hearing voices, you're either holy or you're farbot, and I'm sure as frell not holy.' She let out a tiny giggle, her breath misting the glass as she tilted it to her lips, but there were still tears in her eyes. 'I guess you'd know about that one, though.'  
  
As his teeth ground together, preparing for the acerbity of the comeback, he felt Harvey shift in his mind. Like a moth in an eardrum; like mental indigestion; like a needle in a vein. Something where it should not be, reminding him of its presence whenever he moved. He bit the comment back, her eyes on him leaving him feeling strangely, horribly exposed. Her steady gaze gave no respite.  
  
'I was going to leave you a warning,' she said, softly. 'I didn't know how to...'  
  
Crichton felt a crawling sensation up his spine, and twisted his neck to peer over his shoulder. The doorway was still clear. No-one approached. Yet.  
  
'Looks like you still have time,' he said, dryly.  
  
Chiana glanced urgently at the empty door. 'You'd want to know?' she said, her eyes hesitant. 'Whatever was coming, you'd want to know?'  
  
He nodded, from instinct.  
  
Chiana's eyes clouded. 'Remember that you said that,' she murmured, almost inaudibly, and pushed a holochip in a tiny projector towards him.  
  
Crichton stared down at the device. It danced on the bar, shifting unsteadily under his blurry gaze, before glowing into life. A bluish projection hovered above it, the quality poor but clear enough. A transport pod. A uniformed Sebacean. Two Hynerians; one female, one bound.  
  
'Security monitor in the pod?' Crichton murmured, screwing up his eyes to clear his vision, but Chiana silenced him with a swift movement from her hand and set the flickery image in motion.  
  
The figures moved; with a crackle of static, spoke. Then the projection stilled.  
  
Crichton stared at the frozen image, the motionless Sebacean tech reaching an experienced hand to the flight controls. It was meaningless; an outtake with no punchline.  
  
Chiana stared at him expectantly.  
  
'What?' he shrugged.  
  
She slid a finger along the controls, and the image of the female Hynerian spun backwards, repeating herself.  
  
'Begin broadcasting our location to the peacekeepers.'  
  
Again, she gazed at him, her breath held. He blinked, mystified.  
  
'Am I supposed to guess what happens next?' he said lamely, risking a quick glance at the doorway. Still empty.  
  
'Two signals already broadcast Moya's location to the peacekeepers, Crichton,' said Chiana, her voice low. 'Two signals from on board Moya. Why would they need to /begin/ sending any more?'  
  
Crichton rubbed an eye as if weary, while a foot slid to the floor in readiness.  
  
'I don't know, Chi, maybe it was a slip of the tongue, maybe they're just paranoid.'  
  
'Or maybe it wasn't Orrhn that sent the other signals.'  
  
The leather coat was nudged off his thigh, the pulse pistol resting under his waiting hand.  
  
'No-one ever said she did,' he said absently, twisting in the seat so he was side on, with a view of the whole room. 'Orrhn was too busy getting jiggy with Mr Rygel to set up her own little CB system. It was the tech that sent the other messages.'  
  
'The tech was locked in a cell until they left in the pod. There was a DRD watching him the whole time; he didn't leave that room until Orrhn let him out.'  
  
She was hunched low on the stool now, her face close to the bar, black eyes darting anxiously around the room. Crichton followed their movement, every sense tuned to it, the drunkenness fading in the face of adrenaline.  
  
'If he was smart enough to build a transmitter, he would've been smart enough to disable a DRD,' he said, fingers sliding down the cold metal of the pistol.  
  
'Pilot's recording data shows no evidence of tampering,' she said softly, drawing herself back in her seat as if anticipating sudden action.  
  
Crichton dragged his eyes from the silent tables of drinkers, unaware of his scrutiny. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Chiana searchingly.  
  
'So, what? Crais sent the transmission?'  
  
It sounded wrong even to him. Regardless of any personal transformations he might claim, a mutinous ex-Peacekeeper captain would not be welcomed back to the fold. In fathering Talyn, Crais had lost none of his pragmatism.  
  
Chiana shook her head slowly. 'The Boolite said 'She',' she murmured. 'And Hubero was an androgen.'  
  
Crichton nodded slowly, recalling the nervy expression of the escaped Nebari as he mentally counted them down. A sober smile crossed his lips, as his thumb located the weapon release catch on his holster.  
  
'Unless D'Argo's hiding something unexpected under his kilt, Pip, that leaves Aeryn, Jool, and you.' He raised an eyebrow, pointedly. 'If there's something you want to get off your chest, now would be the time.'  
  
Chiana gazed up at him, a small frown creasing her smooth forehead, ruffling the soft hairs that fell over it. She stared in confusion for a moment, then shook her head.  
  
'Who was first on the scene when Naj Gil was found dead by D'Argo?' she said rapidly.  
  
'The Scarren?' Crichton said. 'I don't know. When I got there it was...'  
  
'Aeryn left to fetch medical supplies. And the second transmission was sent while everyone else was there. Everyone but her and the tech.'  
  
'So the tech sent it.' He saw her mouth open to protest, and shook his head. 'I don't know how. Maybe he can walk through walls. Maybe he put it on a timer. Maybe the DRD watching him just fell asleep, and didn't want to fess up to Pilot.'  
  
Insane. Insane conversation. He kept his eyes on the door.  
  
'Why wouldn't the hangar doors close when Orrhn was escaping?' said Chiana, in an urgent whisper. 'The tech and Orrhn were in the pod with Rygel, how could they have controlled them?'  
  
Crichton shook his head, barely listening. 'I don't know. Maybe Orrhn rigged some kind of...'  
  
'She didn't,' Chiana cut in. 'I checked. Moya malfunctioned because someone sabotaged the conduits in the neural nexus.'  
  
An exasperated snort of frustration escaped him, as he touched the ball of his other foot to the floor, poised. 'C'mon, Chi, that's impossible. I was down there doing repairs myself. I was there. I was right there.'  
  
Talking.  
  
/Fluffy pink slippers. Donald Duck./  
  
Coaxing; cajoling; gibbering.  
  
/Mickey Mouse. Huey, Louie, and Dewey./  
  
Talking, instead of listening. Talking, instead of looking, as she severed the linkages that controlled the hangar doors right before his eyes.  
  
His eyes crawled from the door to look at Chiana. She stared up at him, shoulders hunched, her eyes shiny with uncertain tears, like a confessing child waiting to hear her punishment. He stayed still, his thumb hovering on the release catch, his lips opening and closing, searching for words.  
  
'That's what Zhaan needed to tell Stark,' she said, quietly.  
  
Crichton shook his head.  
  
'That's why I have to leave. Why I had to do it like this.'  
  
He shook his head again, blinking angrily at the hot tears pricking at his eyes.  
  
'You're wrong,' he whispered throatily, his voice hollow.  
  
She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, and the fearful hope that had lingered in her black eyes dissipated. She drew back from him almost imperceptibly, recoiling into herself. 'Then she won't have tried to come with you,' she murmured, taking up her glass, and staring unseeingly at the liquid inside. 'She won't have wanted to bring the Farscape One.'  
  
He swallowed, almost choking on his own breath.  
  
/Then we'll take the module, and I'll come with you./  
  
Linfer. Phase shielding. A craft made on Earth, from earthly components. Unique.  
  
/Same idea./  
  
/No, I wanted to take your module./  
  
/You didn't know D'Argo could fly this./  
  
Rygel had survived a wormhole in it. Unique: the module, not its creator. And unique is always valuable.  
  
Insane.  
  
Insane conversation.  
  
The door swung open, its creak loud in the silence.  
  
'Crichton.'  
  
Aeryn.  
  
Surveying the room coolly, hand resting easily on the hilt of her holstered pistol. Cold, dismissive glance at Chiana; taut smile at Crichton.  
  
/Those are escaped prisoners you have on your ship. They're dangerous. Don't you care?/  
  
/No. Not any more./  
  
'It's been more than an arn. We were concerned.'  
  
'I would've commed,' he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably as Chiana stiffened beside him.  
  
Aeryn nodded, her eyes flicking briefly to the weapon at his thigh, then back to his face.  
  
'Are you ready to leave?' she said.  
  
He shifted his weight, one foot to the other. Poised. Ready to do...something. Bolt. Shoot. Cry. Decide.  
  
'D'Argo's waiting,' she added. 'He insisted on coming. Actually, I think he just wanted an excuse to try out landing the Luxan ship.'  
  
'You didn't bring the module?' he asked, aiming for casual and hitting a rasping note, his breath too tightly held.  
  
She shrugged lightly.  
  
/Maybe I could have become something different./  
  
Hope.  
  
'The DRDs couldn't get it together,' she said. 'Some vital nav component or other went missing. You really should be more careful.'  
  
No hope.  
  
He tried to freeze his face; keep the death of his future from blazing in his eyes. She showed no flicker of recognition.  
  
/If you'd lived, I could have truly changed./  
  
Chiana made a minute movement at his side, her hand slipping to a concealed pocket in her travelling coat. Her fingers traced a lump there, about the size of a nav unit.  
  
Crichton saw it and hopped off the stool, the folds of his coat falling in front of her hand, hiding her.  
  
/But you are gone. And I am what I was bred to be./  
  
'We should go,' he said, firmly.  
  
Aeryn nodded once, her face unemotional. 'Chiana...?' she began.  
  
'Has chosen to leave,' he finished for her.  
  
Chosen to save him. Chosen to take the responsibility from his hands, in case he didn't come, in case he wouldn't listen.  
  
'And we will respect that decision,' he added.  
  
Aeryn nodded curtly as he turned, and pulled the Nebari into an embrace that concealed the grief that was rising in his throat. She clasped him tightly, as his hand stroked her soft hair once.  
  
'Thank you,' he murmured, his voice a rough, husky whisper.  
  
She breathed the words back into his chest.  
  
They parted, Chiana reaching up to kiss only his cheek, and wipe away a tear like a fussing mother. A tiny half-smile tugged at her lips; his eyes gave her his promise.  
  
Then he turned, and, joining the peacekeeper at the door, strode purposefully away to face up to her choice.  
  
END.  
  
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I've said it before, I'll say it again: before you ready that flaming piece of feedback, go watch 'Fractures' again. And then tell me that when Tony Tilse cuts away from Crichton saying 'the bad guy's got to be with one of you,' he isn't really slipping the ace out from inside his sleeve. 


End file.
